Childlike Tendencies
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: In which Sherlock reverts to being a five-year-old because he's caught a cold. Multi-chapter sick!fic.
1. Deduction

**Childlike Tendencies**

Sherlock knew that he was sick the moment that he woke up.

Maybe it was because he woke up with a headache, a sore throat, and exhaustion. Maybe it was because he had gone to bed with a dull ache spreading through his body and shivers starting to make his frame tremble. Maybe it was because he had sneezed three times, out of the blue, when he had been sprawled out on the couch listening to the telly. Maybe it was because John had brought home a cold from who-knew-where.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock knew that he was sick the moment he woke up... and he instantly knew that he hated it.

The last time that he had been sick was when he was twelve. He had had flu and it had been miserable and, try as he may to delete the memory, he couldn't. It had been a traumatising experience full of nausea and dizziness and chills and sweating and headaches and sneezing and runny noses and watery eyes and- Essentially, it had been a real pain in the arse.

Sherlock, dismissing his childhood memories, rolled over and fell back asleep.

* * *

"Are you going to join me for dinner? Or going to continue being ridiculously lazy and sleep the rest of the day away?"

Sherlock pried his eyes open at John's voice. Dinner. What _time_ was it? Glance at the digital; it said six-thirty. At night? Couldn't be. Window. Sun was setting. Yes. Six-thirty p.m. _How?_

"I'm sick," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up from the blankets.

Sick. Had to be. He didn't even know what time it was. Or what day it was. How could he sleep for so long? Disgusting!

"What?"

John's footsteps, closer. Voice, worried. Conclusion, didn't notice anything was wrong. Thought Sherlock was being lazy.

"I'm sick," Sherlock repeated stubbornly, tightening his grip around the blankets.

"With what?" More footsteps. At the edge of the bed. "Sherlock, if this is some ploy to get out of eating, you really don't have to go to such extremes." Voice, annoyed now.

Sherlock groaned quietly. Why did his head have to hurt _so_ much?

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice taking on the worried quality again. "You're really sick?"

"Did you think I was saying it for the fun of it?" Sherlock mumbled, untangling one of his hands from the blankets to rub his running nose.

"You never get sick."

"I'm sick!" Sherlock retorted.

John raised his eyebrows. "Alright... Symptoms?"

"Headache, runny nose, sore throat, chills, sweating, generalized aches, and exhaustion."

"That's called 'you work too much'."

"John..." Sherlock groaned, drawing the blankets infinitely more close.

There was suddenly pressure on Sherlock's forehead. He looked up at John unhappily, finding the doctor pressing his hand to his forehead.

"You are a bit warm... You're really being serious?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I am. Please find me the thermometer. The last I seen it, it was behind the mouthwash and next to the cluster of mold growing in the far right corner of the medicine cabinet."

"Yeah, I'll just get the one out of the medical kit... Give me a second."

While John was gone, Sherlock pondered on why his transport insisted on falling victim to such illnesses as inane as the 'common cold'. He hated being sick. It was annoying and tedious and boring and dull and-

It short-circuited his brain.

(In short, as Mycroft knew and John would come to realize, it made Sherlock revert to a five year old. Even moreso than usual.)

"Alright. Let's check your temperature," John said as he walked back in, powering the digital thermometer on.

Sherlock took it without protest- he wasn't _eager_ to be sick, but he was already ready to get rid of this cold- and waited for the temperature reading to settle. When it did, the thermometer's chime signifying that his temperature had been taken, he found it was at thirty-eight three.

"I told you I was sick," Sherlock mumbled, handing the thermometer back to John.

John's eyebrows furrowed slightly at the reading. "I should know not to doubt you, but you're never sick..." he muttered, before looking up. "Have you taken any paracetamol?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Haven't been out of bed."

"Okay... Well, you need to eat. I can make you soup, or something else, if you'd like."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"I don't wanna eat," he grumbled, snuggling closer to the blankets. "Tea would be nice, though..." he mumbled, peering at John over the edges of his blankets.

John looked at him, still frowning slightly and looking worried. "... Fine. That's better than nothing, I guess. I'll bring you medicine, too. Just stay in bed."

Sherlock watched John leave, feeling tired and a bit pathetic.

No, Sherlock decided, being sick as an adult was not any better than being sick as a child.

* * *

**Yes, another sick!fic... This is a bit different, and a bit difficult, for me, though. I'm not exactly sure how accurate this is, but... Mainly, it's for smiles and humour rather than the angst and h/c, but, since it is a sick!fic, there still will be h/c. :) The chapters will be short; my muses have been uncooperative for awhile and this is a bit of 'therapeutic' writing on my behalf. If you like the idea of Sherlock being an uncooperative, ill five-year-old consulting detective, then perhaps you might like this!**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Favourites, follows, and reviews are always much appreciated. Thank you!**


	2. Warmth

Sherlock sneezed.

"John... John!"

There was a few seconds silence before John appeared in the doorway, holding a towel firmly around his waist. "What?"

"I need tissues..." Sherlock mumbled, once again sinking to the level of rubbing his nose on the back of his hand.

"You do realize that I was in the shower?" John asked, frowning at Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at him briefly. "No, you just stepped out."

"But _before_ I stepped out, I was in the shower."

"Mmmph..." Sherlock sniffed, shrinking further under the blankets.

John sighed, vanishing from the doorway. A few seconds later, Sherlock flinched as John slammed the box of tissues on the bedside table.

"Now, are you capable of handling your cold while I get dressed?"

"'s not my fault..." Sherlock mumbled. "You usually shower in the morning, not at night..." he said, plucking a tissue from the box to blow his nose.

"Well, it's not _my_ fault that _someone_ exploded three cans of pumpkin in the bathroom. And then someone _else_ had to clean it up."

Sherlock sighed. "It was an experiment..."

"Obviously," John muttered, before shutting himself back in the bathroom.

Sherlock crumpled the tissue, throwing it back onto the bedside table.

This was miserable.

He wondered how many times he was going to ascertain that fact.

He shuffled even further under the blankets, drawing them closer up to his nose. It was freezing, except that he was sure that it wasn't. He _would_ be the one to get a cold in the middle of spring, wouldn't he? It just figured...

Sherlock sniffled again, sighing as he closed his eyes. He was tired and cold and sweaty and trembling and his nose hurt from rubbing the back of his hand against it.

"Are you feeling any better?" John asked as he stepped back into the bedroom. Sherlock noted, without opening his eyes, the tell-tale brush of fabric as John walked; he was fully dressed now.

"No," Sherlock griped, opening his eyes to look towards John. "I feel horrible."

"Well, you've just taken paracetamol in the past hour... It should start helping you feel better soon."

Sherlock just groaned, shivering before he pulled the blankets over his face. "It's _cold_."

"No, that's your fever."

Sherlock relinquished his grip on the blankets, only resurfacing from the cacoon to barely glimpse at John. "I want another blanket."

"You have a fever."

"But it's just a low-grade..." Sherlock groaned as another shudder wracked his frame.

John watched him for a moment before seeming to sigh. "Fine. Hang on. I'll get the afghan."

"Oh, don't give me that," Sherlock complained, half glaring. "It's heinous."

"Yes, but it's warm."

"No," he said resolutely. "I want one of your blankets."

"Sherlock-"

"Your blanket," Sherlock repeated, hiding under the duvet again.

"A blanket is a blanket."

Sherlock didn't say anything, hoping that John would just take the hint, get out, get a blanket from the top shelf of his closet, and return to Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't have made such a big deal about if the stupid afghan on the back of the chair in the sitting room didn't look like knit vomit. It was also rather uncomfortable. It was a bit scratchy.

"... Fine," John muttered. "You just have to make everything more difficult, don't you?" he mumbled, but Sherlock heard his footsteps retreating.

* * *

**As the illness lingers, Sherlock's mental stability decreases... :p**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for all of your support!**


	3. Food

_John?_  
_S_

Sherlock knew that it was just past midnight, and that he shouldn't be awake right now, but he _had_ woken up. Logically, he was texting John since he wanted something to drink.

A singular question mark was all the responding text read in reply.

Sherlock painstakingly typed another message back, squinting at the small screen.

_Tea._

Sherlock sighed, dropping his phone. He curled up again, pulling the blanket that John had gotten for him closer. It was warm and cozy and comfortable, and it smelled like John's shampoo and aftershave. It was very comforting. Sentiment, yes, but comforting. He thought that John's blanket had rather caused him to fall asleep.

He didn't mind.

There were footsteps on the stairs and Sherlock painfully sat up, trying to ignore the aches and pains that was the illness attacking his transport.

John appeared in his doorway moments later, looking tired and annoyed.

"You... woke me up... because you want tea," John said, tonelessly.

Sherlock nodded tiredly. "Green tea with a teaspoon of honey, if you don't mind."

John didn't move.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes again.

"You woke me up at midnight so I could make you tea!" John exclaimed, glaring towards him as he pulled his dressing gown closer.

"Yes...?" Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes. "I wasn't going to do it."

"You have a _cold_, Sherlock. It's not like you have flu or pneumonia. You _can_ do things by yourself."

"You don't understand."

"Really? Because _I'm_ the doctor."

"A simple cold can incapacitate me, John, unlike most people. I cannot... handle... such illnesses. They are far out of proportion in my mind."

"... Right."

Sherlock coughed. "Tea would be _really_ lovely, John. Have a cuppa and you'll fall right back to sleep, too."

Sherlock could practically hear John's eyes rolling as the doctor turned and walked out.

When he returned, nearly fifteen minutes later, Sherlock opened his eyes and prepared to complain for his tardiness when he found John carrying a mug in one hand and a bowl in the other.

"What's that rubbish?"

"This 'rubbish' is soup. You need to eat, and since you're up for another dose of paracetamol, you're going to eat some- substantial- food.

"Why did you make soup at twelve in the morning..." Sherlock muttered, taking the mug of tea.

"Why did you want me to make tea at twelve in the morning," John intoned.

"I didn't ask for soup."

"You're going to eat it."

"I don't want it."

"Sherlock..." John started warningly.

Sherlock sighed heavily, coughing afterwards. "Fine, then."

Sherlock swapped his mug of tea with the bowl of soup that John was holding. He collected a spoonful and sniffed at it. "Ugh."

"It's chicken noodle, Sherlock. Don't 'ugh' me."

"Dull," he muttered, swallowing a spoonful of the soup. "Tastes dull, too."

"Just shut up and eat it. Please."

Sherlock shut up and ate his soup, sulking the entire time.

* * *

**I do not own _Sherlock_. **

**Thanks!**


	4. Complaints

"Do you have to breathe so _loudly_?" Sherlock complained from his vantage point on the sofa, the blankets drawn close to his shoulders.

"I'm breathing like a normal human being," John replied patiently, paging through a magazine absently.

"Well, don't," Sherlock muttered.

Sherlock, as the morning wore on to afternoon, started to feel a bit better. Enough so that he had been able to coax his transport out of bed and stumble to the sitting room where he had flopped, lazily, onto the sofa with his blankets and sheet.

"Sorry," John said, without sounding sorry.

"I want more tea."

"Fix it yourself," John muttered.

"But I'm _sick_!"

"And you are still capable. Just as you are proving by continuously complaining at me..."

"I'm not complaining at you. I'm complaining to you."

"_At_ me, Sherlock. You are complaining _at_ me."

"Fine. Tea?"

"No."

"But I'm _cold_ and my throat hurts!"

"Have a throat lozenge," John suggested.

"Where are they?" Sherlock said, looking again at John.

"Bathroom."

Sherlock sighed, drawing the blankets closer. He stretched out across the sofa, groaning slightly. He closed his eyes and buried his face into the blankets, shivering. He felt eyes on him and smirked to himself as he knew that John was looking at him.

He exhaled shakily, drawing his knees up to his chest yet again.

He heard John sigh before standing.

"I'll get you a throat lozenge," John said. "And after that, I'll make you some tea. Do you want another blanket?

Sherlock smiled, not looking up. "That sounds good."

"Do you always turn into a consulting five year old when you're sick...?" John muttered as he turned and traipsed towards the bathroom.

* * *

"What do you want for lunch?"

"Tomato soup," Sherlock replied immediately.

"With grilled cheese?" John asked.

"And Finz," Sherlock added.

"Alright."

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa now, his blankets drawn up to his chin and over his shoulders. His gaze was directed at the telly, where some musical programme was playing.

"John..."

"What, Sherlock?"

"This programme is stupid," he said, over a rendition of yet another song being sung on the movie. "The doctor is terribly angst-ridden and the women he pines after is ridiculously naive. Do they know _nothing_ about the real world?"

"It's a movie, Sherlock."

"Yes, but it's stupid! He's a terrible villain! He's too nice to be a villain! And why is there so much _singing_?!"

The television suddenly flickered off.

Sherlock looked towards John, finding him holding the remote to the telly.

"Are you happy now?" John asked, throwing the remote onto the chair.

"Not really..." Sherlock muttered, curling a bit more under the blankets. "When will the soup be done?"

"I just put it on the stove, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed heavily, coughing. He sniffed afterwards, rubbing his nose. "Where are my tissues?"

"Did you leave them in the bedroom?"

"I'm not sure..."

"I'll check," John said, placing the bread for the grilled cheese in the frying pan. "Just give me a second."

"You should say 'minute'. You aren't going to walk to my room, pick up my tissues, and walk back to the sitting room in one 'second'..." Sherlock mumbled.

John sighed as he walked back to Sherlock's bedroom. He returned after a moment. "You are literally driving me insane, do you know that?" he asked, handing Sherlock the box of tissues.

"Figuratively, you mean..." Sherlock mumbled, taking a tissue.

"Whatever you say."

"Just don't burn my grilled cheese, John."

John sighed (again) as he walked back to the kitchen.

* * *

**First half of this chapter inspired by _Storylover18_, who probably doesn't remember even suggesting the idea to me because it was awhile ago. =p Kudos to those who can guess what Sherlock was watching on the telly. Hint: It's not Sherlock Holmes related.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I also do not own the vaguely non-name mentioned movie Sherlock was watching. Thank you!**


	5. Siblings

_Are you taking care of yourself, brother dearest?_  
_M_

Sherlock stiffened upon reading the text, although he was quick to respond.

_Mind your own business, Mycroft._  
_S_

"Who was that?" John asked, looking away from the telly.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied sulkily, drawing his blankets over his head. He kept his face uncovered, although a corner of his sheet fell across his forehead. "How did he know I was sick?" he asked critically, glaring weakly towards John.

"He happened to call me earlier and I asked him what he thought the best course of treatment would be for you, seeing as how he's dealt with it before," John replied calmly, looking back at the television.

"He hasn't dealt with it before," Sherlock muttered. "Our Mother dealt with it."

He sniffed and plucked another tissue from the box. He didn't care to think about his childhood when he was healthy; much less when he was sick.

"Well, that aside. He reaffirmed the point that I have already figured out."

"Which was what?" Sherlock mumbled, sniffling.

"That you're a child."

Sherlock sighed, shivering. "Wait until you catch a cold, John. You will rue the day you were born, doctor."

"I have had a cold before," John said. "It's annoying, but not incapacitating. And, more importantly, did you just say 'rue the day'?" he asked, humour in his voice.

Sherlock's mobile rang.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking to his mobile. He picked it up and accepted the call, clumsily.

"Sherlock Holmes."

_"Do tell me that you aren't running our dear doctor ragged."_

Sherlock scowled. "Leave me alone, Mycroft."

_"Stuffy nose, as is obvious, sore throat, chills, headache and... a slight fever? You should really take better care of yourself, Sherlock."_

"John told you my symptoms," Sherlock muttered. "Don't try to seem intelligent; it just makes you seem stupid. Moreso than usual..." Sherlock mumbled nearly incoherently.

_"I heard that, Sherlock."_

"Well, at least I'm not an idiot!" Sherlock retorted.

John met his gaze, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock made a face, wrinkling his nose.

"This is just stupid," Sherlock complained as he drew the blankets closer. "What do you want?"

_"Am I not allowed to check in on my sick little brother?"_

"No," Sherlock replied immediately. "And, anyway, I'm fine. Your sentiment isn't going to make me feel _better_. In fact, my headache has become more painful since you started talking."

From where Sherlock was sitting, he could see John struggle not to smile.

"Oh, piss off, John!" Sherlock said, tilting the phone away. "Like I said, wait until you catch a cold."

_"Trying to get your tolerate flatmate sick now?"_

"I am not! Not yet..." Sherlock muttered.

John's trying-not-to-smile smile turned into a this-is-amusing smile.

"Stop _smiling_, John! How can you think this is funny? I'm sitting here, wasting away, having to listen to my brother's useless drivel-" He sneezed.

"Bless you."

_"Bless you."_

"Why is everyone talking to me at once?!" Sherlock sighed heavily, rubbing his nose. "If you have nothing else to say, Mycroft, I'm going to hang up."

_"You can infer what I meant to call about, and you're clearly still feeling ill."_

"I'm hanging up, Brother."

_"Do try to cooperate with John, Sherlock,"_ Mycroft said.

"Whatever," Sherlock replied, ending the call and dropping his mobile on the couch. "John, _why_ did you have to tell Mycroft about me being sick?"

"He would have figured it out, anyway."

Sherlock couldn't argue against that point. He knew Mycroft would have figured it out eventually, except... "He might not have figured it out until after I was healthy again, which would have avoided the awkward conversation."

"Was it awkward? It sounded funny from my point of view."

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Please do shut up."

John smiled. "Sherlock?"

"... What?"

"Would you like another cup of tea?"

Sherlock glanced up. "Oh, yes, please."

John's smile broadened and Sherlock hesitantly smiled in response.

* * *

**Again, an idea by S_torylover18_. Back to some fluffy John-taking-care-of-Sherlock in the next chapter, which I'm afraid is rather short... but this story is by no means over. This is actually fun, writing Sherlock so childish! :D**

**For those who guessed _Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog_ for what Sherlock was watching last chapter, you, my friends, are correct! Because I love Dr. Horrible.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_, and, as mentioned before, do not own _Dr. Horrible_, either. Thank you!**


	6. TLC

"Feeling better?" John asked as he walked into Sherlock's bedroom with another cup of tea.

"I... am _so_... tired," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"Well, you should be sleeping."

Sherlock eagerly took the cup of hot tea, sipping at it. It was the perfect temperature, perfect strength, with just the perfect amount of sugar and milk. "I had to shower," he said, drawing the blankets close. "I felt gross."

"And I'm sure you still feel gross, so drink your tea and go to sleep."

Sherlock blanched at the thought of falling asleep at _nine_ o' clock in the _evening_... He usually didn't fall into bed (when he did sleep, that was) until after two or three. But he was exhausted. He didn't understand it. He had sat around the whole day, sneezing and blowing his nose and cuddling into the blankets and eating and taking paracetamol _and_ dozing. And now he was exhausted and he hated his transport for it.

"Did you take your temperature lately?" John asked, draping a blanket (John's blanket) over Sherlock's shoulders.

"Before my shower."

"And?"

"Thirty eight," Sherlock said, taking another sip of his tea.

"Good. Another day or so of rest and you should be feeling back to your normal self."

Sherlock looked up. "Another _day or so_?" he repeated. "I cannot be sick for another day or so, John; I have cases to work on."

"You don't _have_ a case; hence you trying to test if the murders in fiction literature could actually be possible."

Sherlock sighed, taking a large gulp of his tea. "It's always interesting to test." He drank the last of his tea with another gulp before laying down. He snuggled into the blankets, pulling John's blanket closest. The worn fabric tickled his neck and Sherlock sighed, burrowing further under the fabric.

"All good?"

"S'pose," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.

"I'll get you your medicine."

Sherlock nodded infinitesimally. There were footsteps as John vanished into the bathroom, and more footsteps as John returned. Sherlock snaked one of his hands out from the blanket and held it out, awaiting John to place the medication on his palm.

After he had, he placed the tablets on his tongue and swallowed them without bothering with drinking water. He had just gotten comfortable and he didn't want to move.

"Did you use all the tissues?" John asked as there was some rustling of cardboard. (Probably the tissue box.) "Going by the state of the floor, I'd say you have..."

"Yes..." he muttered.

"I'll get a handkerchief."

"No," Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"I don't like handkerchiefs... You blow your nose once and then the handkerchief gets all damp and cold with your snot..." he mumbled.

"... Okay. Toilet paper?"

"It works in a pinch, I suppose..."

"Well, it's better than your sleeve," John said, and there were footsteps again.

Sherlock sniffled and drew the blankets closer, trying to ignore the pounding headache. It was disgusting. He couldn't wait for this to go away.

"Here," John said, his words pronounced with a slight snap.

Sherlock opened his eyes, barely, to find a roll of toilet paper sitting on the nightstand. He sighed and once again removed his arm from the blankets to pick it up. He drew the roll under the blankets with him for safe-keeping.

John laughed quietly before speaking. "I'll be going to bed soon. Text me if you need me... but no texting me for tea at midnight!" he added quickly.

Sherlock mumbled a response, although it was definitely not a promise. He couldn't help it when he wanted tea. All he knew was that he wanted tea when he wanted it; it was an unconscious decision and very helpful to his recovery process.

"I'm going to imagine that you said 'Yes, John, I'm going to be a model patient'," John said before pausing. "Get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning."

* * *

**WRONG, John, WRONG. Okay, he's not wrong, but Sherlock's going to go and make himself miserable again. The next chapter's more interesting, I promise. And more Sherlock acting like a child. I guess this is just filler fluff.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks, by the way, for all of your continued support! I appreciate it greatly. I can be having the worst day and all it takes is one person being really happy about my writing and I feel _so_ much better. You guys constantly remind me why I want to be a novelist. Thank you!**


	7. Overworked

Sherlock, when he woke up, found the headache and the sore throat gone. He was infinitely grateful and was just stretching, sighing tiredly, when he noticed that, while his nose wasn't running, it was stuffy.

Great. He didn't know if that was better or worse.

He rolled out of bed, noting that the aches and pain hadn't really gone away, but did feel better. He must be getting better, then. That was good.

And, since he was feeling a bit better, he was going to make his own cup of tea.

"Good morning," John muttered, sitting in the chair by the fireplace. He was in his dressing gown and had the morning paper in his hands, but he was now looking at Sherlock. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Sherlock said.

But then he stopped. Stopped talking, that was, wondering why his voice sounded different. He sounded... weird. And his ears felt weird, not exactly pained but definitely not normal. A bit like having water in his ears.

"John, why does my voice sound different?" he muttered, squinting across the room at John. "Do I sound different to you or is it just me?"

"You're congested," John said, looking back to the paper. "It'll pass."

"Congested?" Sherlock repeated, scowling. "I thought I was getting better."

"You are," John said, flipping the page, "but the nasal congestion could stick around for a bit. Nasal spray might help. Don't blow your nose more than necessary... The last thing I could handle is you getting a sinus infection."

"My ears feel strange," he muttered.

"Congestion."

"In my _ears_?"

John laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Yes. How do you not know this?"

Sherlock sighed, taking his cup of tea to the chair which he flopped into. "Because I never get sick. I have no need for the information. The last time I was sick was when I was a child."

"That could explain quite a lot, actually..." John muttered.

"Speak up. My ears are not cooperating with the rest of my useless transport.

"Nothing," John said. "Take some more paracetamol and go back to bed."

"Oh, but John, I don't want to," Sherlock complained. "All I've been doing is sleeping and it's so... _lazy_. My mind is slowly unravelling from disuse."

"I highly doubt that _your_ mind could ever unravel, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mobile started ringing just then and he, ignoring John, hastened to answer whoever was calling him. It had to be better than sitting around. Unless it was Mycroft calling. If it was, Sherlock would rather sleep.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered.

He felt the usual inklings of interest start coursing through his veins as Lestrade explained that there was a new case. _Finally_; something interesting! Being sick was boring!

"Of course," he said, standing. "Twenty minutes." He hung up, throwing his phone down.

"Sherlock?" John questioned as Sherlock hurried back to his room. "Sherlock, who was that?"

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock- Sherlock, _no_. Sherlock, you need to be _resting_," John said, following after him.

"I _have_ been resting, John," Sherlock retorted, his voice bordering on a whine. "Come on. This case has to be more interesting than _this_, John, and I feel fine."

"Do you?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I feel better than I did and it's good enough. Come on, John, get dressed! We have a murder to investigate!"

* * *

"You sound a bit funny, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed heavily, sneezing afterwards.

"Fighting a cold, Greg. Don't mind him. He's fine."

Sherlock flashed a glance at John. "I wish you wouldn't make stupid assumptions."

"Oh," Lestrade said. "Well, I don't envy you having him as a patient."

"I don't envy myself," John said, cracking a smile.

"I am _right_ here. I _can_ hear you," Sherlock muttered.

"See what I mean?" John muttered. "Consulting five year old. He's been throwing tantrums when he doesn't get what he wants."

"I'm not throwing tantrums!" Sherlock retorted hotly. "Now, since I've solved your stupid case, John, let's go; I want to go home."

John and Lestrade shared a look that made Sherlock want to say _I can _see_!_ but he didn't. He just turned and shuffled back towards the street, wanting to hail a cab. He was cold and tired and his headache was back.

Maybe it was a bit not good to have not taken any paracetamol this morning.

He fell into the cab heavily, sighing in annoyance as John gave him a look of concern.

"You look peaky again. Are you feeling worse?"

"Fine."

"Sherlock-"

"I'm _fine_!"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes. You're perfectly fine. You're going to go home, be fine but take some paracetamol, and go to bed."

Sherlock sighed again, sulking as he turned his attention to the window.

* * *

**Sick Sherlock at a crime scene... He just doesn't learn that he needs to be resting. Relapses are never fun, as John knows and Sherlock is about to find out about...**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	8. Row

"Go to bed."

"No."

"Go to bed."

"_No_."

"Sherlock-"

"I don't want to!"

John sighed, throwing down the magazine. "You look exhausted, your headache's back, you keep sniffling and you're _clearly_ miserable again, so go to bed!"

"I don't want to," Sherlock repeated stubbornly, drawing his knees close.

"You shouldn't have gone out on that case. I knew it, and I should have stopped you. But you said were feeling better and you looked like you were, so I let you go gallivanting about and now look. You feel terrible again."

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered.

"Okay." John stood up, hands clenching into fists and unclenching again. "Okay. Stay up. Be miserable. Fine."

Sherlock looked up at him. "Can you get me a cup of tea?"

"No, I'm bloody well not getting you a cup of tea!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock cringed delicately, frowning. "What? Why not?"

"If you're not miserable enough to go to bed, you're not miserable enough for me to make you a cup of tea!"

"Stop yelling," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm not yelling. How am I yelling? _If_ I'm yelling, it's to ensure that you're hearing me!"

"My head hurts, John," Sherlock complained, drawing his blankets closer.

"Go to bed!"

"I don't want to go to bed!"

"Then don't complain!"

Sherlock resisted the urge to groan at the intensifying pain that the shouting was causing, mainly the pulsating throb beneath his temples. He wanted to go curl up in bed and bury himself underneath the blankets... but he wouldn't give John the satisfaction of winning the argument.

Instead, he just squeezed his eyes closed and sniffed, shivering a bit more than he had been.

John sighed after a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm just... not used to taking care of you when you're sick. Not used to taking care of you at all, frankly."

Sherlock didn't open his eyes, just continued to shiver and wishing he had an extra blanket. "You're a horrible doctor," he mumbled. "And a lousy friend."

"I'm sorry," John repeated. "Really." Creaking of the sofa as John took a seat next to him. "What do you want? You said a cup of tea? Anything else?"

Sherlock opened his eyes slightly, looking miserably towards John. "Another blanket?"

"And paracetamol," John said. He stood up again. "Just give me a few minutes."

"Maybe the travel package of tissues that you keep in the first-aid kit upstairs?"

John frowned. "Travel pack... oh. I forgot I had those."

"Emergency supplies, John..." Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes again. "They're there for a reason..."

"Yeah, I know, but I forgot. Hang on."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, but he heard the kettle click on, heard John ascending the stairs, and then descending. There was another blanket settled around Sherlock's shoulders and the crinkling of what Sherlock (correctly) assumed was the package of the travel tissues.

"Here. I'm getting you your tea and paracetamol now."

Sherlock nodded a bit. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not a rubbish doctor..." Sherlock mumbled.

John sounded surprised as he said "I know I'm not. You just don't feel good. Besides, I rarely take anything you say to heart."

"Great..." Sherlock muttered, snuggling into the blankets.

John sank onto the sofa next to Sherlock after the kettle had boiled and the tea had brewed.

"Here. Meds and tea."

Sherlock took the teacup gratefully, swallowing back the medication with a large gulp of perfectly sweetened chamomile. "Thanks..."

"Not a problem." John paused. "I will give you this, though: you are a rubbish patient."

Sherlock looked at John again. The doctor smiled tiredly and Sherlock smiled faintly over his cup of steaming tea.

* * *

**First, I have to give my utmost thanks to InaZumaElle, who mentioned John snapping at Sherlock/Sherlock reacting like a child in review, and her comment just stuck in my head and I had the _best_ picture (well, I like this chapter, anyway), so THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. You made my muse very happy, without even trying, you lovely person!**

**Secondly, there's probably three chapters left in this story. I've written two more already and it seems like a wrapping chapter is in order. But, like I said, I have three more stories to post, so I'm ready for this to wrap. :P**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	9. Experiment

Sherlock groaned without opening his mouth.

"Just a few seconds."

Sherlock shifted his weight uncomfortably, curling his hands into fists.

The thermometer beeped. John took it from Sherlock and not a moment too soon: Sherlock started coughing the minute he opened his mouth.

"Cover your mouth!" John demanded, taking a step away.

"Sorry!" Sherlock gasped, coughing into the crook of his arm now. "Throat tickles... Need water..."

"Maybe you need to try some cough syrup," John said, turning on the tap to pour a cup of water. "Here."

Sherlock took the cup and took a clumsy drink. "I don't want cough syrup, John. Cough syrup is gross." He handed the cup of water back to John. "Why am I not getting any better?!"

"You do realize that problem with that sentence, right?"

Sherlock grunted and knitted his fingers into his hair, ruffling it up. He turned and walked out of the bathroom, returning to the kitchen.

"What are you doing? You need to go back to bed. I have been telling you this."

"And it's rubbish. I'm not better. I want more tea."

"Look, I'll make you tea, but you need to be resting. And you should probably eat something, too. Nutrients, medicine, hydration, and above all, _rest_ is going to help. You already had medication, so, sit down and let me make you dinner."

"Oh, great," Sherlock muttered, flopping onto the sofa. "Dinner. Food. Boring."

"Yes, eating. It's terribly dull," John muttered, sounding distracted as he looked in the fridge. "I think it might be time to break out the chicken noodle soup."

"Oh, _no_, John, I don't like it."

"Doesn't matter. You can stomach it for a day or two while you're sick. It'll help."

Sherlock drew his dressing gown closer and rolled to face the back of the couch. He didn't want soup and he wasn't going to eat soup, unless it was tomato. He hated chicken noodle soup because of the broth and he hated vegetable soup because of the vegetables. Tomato was only good with grilled cheese and hopefully a side of Finz, but yet, John was insisting on something that Sherlock didn't like. Well, he didn't have to deal with it.

He must have dozed off, because in the next moment, John was shaking his shoulder and telling him to wake up because dinner was ready.

"No," he said thickly. "No chicken noodle soup."

"Sherlock, shut up and deal with it. Do you want to get better or not?"

"It won't help. Just soup. Lemme sleep."

"Chicken noodle soup is _good_ for colds, Sherlock."

"Nonsense... That's rubbish."

"Think of it as an experiment."

Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at the back of the sofa. "... What?"

"The theory is that chicken noodle soup helps colds. You don't really trust that theory, so you need to test it, right? So, eat the soup and see if you feel better. It can't make you feel worse, and it's another experiment that you can file away in your mind palace."

That was... That was actually _valid_. Oh, John was good. John was getting sneaky. Cunning. He knew most of Sherlock's idiosyncracies and he was... using them?

"Oh, you're a bad man," he muttered, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"You know, I think I recall saying that about you once," John muttered absently, smiling as he walked back to the kitchen to get the bowl of soup.

* * *

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Did the experiment work?"

"Go away, John."

"I know that you hate chicken noodle, but do you feel better?"

"No. Go away."

"Because you look a bit better."

"I was asleep."

"Oh?"

"And I had medicine."

"Yes. But, you don't think that maybe the soup-"

"No!"

John laughed quietly, turning away from the huddled mass of blankets and consulting detective. "Whatever you say, Sherlock."

* * *

**Good old chicken noodle soup. No, not really. I hate it, too.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	10. Resolution

Sherlock rubbed his nose. "My nose hurts."

"Yeah, you look like Rudolph," John said absently.

"Who's Rudolph?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

John rolled his eyes. "Nevermind. Your nose is red."

"Probably because it hurts," Sherlock muttered stonily.

"_Probably_ because you keep rubbing it," John said, not looking away from the newspaper as he turned the page.

"It keeps running, John! I can't _not_ rub it when it's running! And I'm out of tissues _again_!"

John looked over the newspaper. "I just went out to Tesco. I bought a new box."

Sherlock frowned. "Well, obviously, I didn't know about that. Where are they?"

"Kitchen, probably. Still in the shopping bag."

Sherlock got to his feet, shuffling to the kitchen.

Begrudgingly, Sherlock had to admit that he was feeling better. Now, this was a good thing... except he had started feeling better _after_ John's stupid experiment with the chicken noodle soup. Sherlock didn't want to admit that the experiment had been a success on John's behalf, even though Sherlock had hated the soup.

Still, he was feeling a bit better. Even though his nose was driving him _crazy_.

The headache was mostly gone, his sore throat had diminished, he still had a few aches and pains, but he had stopped shivering although he was still tired. He considered it a victory... as long as he didn't relapse again.

He found the tissues, ripped the box open, and blew his nose. He poured himself a cuppa and shuffled back to the sitting room.

"I take it you're feeling better."

"'m alright," Sherlock murmured.

"You're feeling better," John repeated. "You got your own cup of tea. You have to be feeling better."

Sherlock shrugged slightly, taking a hesitant sip of his tea. "Ugh! This is cold, John!"

John glanced up. "Yeah? Put it in the microwave for a minute."

Sherlock caught John's gaze, staring at him intently across the room. John sighed before standing.

"Give it here."

Sherlock smiled faintly, handing John his mug. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"Is your headache gone?" John asked, taking a beaker out of the microwave and placing the mug in it instead.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Sore throat?"

"It's better, yes."

"Good," John said, more to himself. The microwave beeped. "The congestion will probably take a few days to go away, but you'll probably start feeling better. _If_ you rest and continue with your medication!" he added in the warning tone of voice.

Sherlock sighed through his nose with a bit of difficulty. "This is so tedious. When can I go back out on a case?"

"A day or two more of rest should be fine," John said, handing over the mug of tea.

"I don't want to rest for a day or two more," Sherlock muttered, taking a hesitant sip of his tea. It was nice and hot. "I want this congestion to go away and my nose to stop-"

He was just in the process of reaching for a tissue when he sneezed. The movement sent hot tea sloshing onto his lap.

"Ouch! Ow!"

"Sherlock-"

"That's hot!" Sherlock said, grabbing a handful of tissue to press against his pyjama pants. "Why did you make it so hot?!"

"Take your trousers off!" John demanded, rushing to Sherlock's side.

"And you always say that you're not gay, mate," said a voice in the doorway.

Both Sherlock and John looked up to find Lestrade looking at them with raised eyebrows, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

John's face went red, but he turned back to Sherlock. "Take them off. Go! Put a cool cloth against the area."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, getting to his feet. With much annoyance and pain, he shuffled to the bathroom.

When he returned, it was to hear John say "- stupid clot had to go and sneeze tea all over himself. Oh, there are you," John said, looking up at Sherlock. "Alright?"

"It's fine," Sherlock mumbled, flopping onto the couch. "Pyjamas soaked it up. M'legs just hurt now... On top of everything else," he muttered to himself. He looked at Lestrade. "What are you doing here? Is there a new case?"

"There is," Lestrade said, "but I figured I'd bring you the evidence file rather than dragging you out of the house. Given that you're clearly still ill."

Sherlock perked up, sitting up straight. "Details."

"It's some code we need to crack. We have one victim but have reason to believe there may be more planned. We needed a cryptographer and I figured since there was nothing else for you to do but feel miserable for yourself..."

"File?" Sherlock inquired, holding out his hand.

Lestrade handed it over.

* * *

When John glanced into Sherlock's room later, he was surprised to find the consulting detective asleep. There was a bottle of Nyquil laying on the bed next to him, not to mention the many papers that Sherlock had been studying. The detective's notes had even spilled over onto the used tissues, it seemed, as there were hasty squiggles of little stick figures across the two-ply tissue.

Sherlock's stuffy nose made his breathing whistle and John couldn't help but smile.

After taking a photo with his mobile, John replaced the spiral notebook that Sherlock's head was resting on (laughing mentally at the imprint on Sherlock's face) with his pillow.

The case could wait. Right now, rest was the most important.

* * *

**And so ends another sick!fic adventure! If you wanted an ending with more closure... Sorry. Sherlock's nearly better. What else do you expect from me? :p Thank you all for your support. Favs/follows/reviews are always appreciated! :)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**


End file.
